


Flying Coach

by ZaliaChimera



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Boredom, Card Games, Gambling, Gen, Humor, Wordcount: 500-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZaliaChimera/pseuds/ZaliaChimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony Stark hates flying commercial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flying Coach

Tony hates flying commercial.

He hates the hard plastic seats. He hates that he has to stand in line and pay for his drinks, never mind that Steve had been volunteered to get everything so there had been no actual standing in line involved for Tony. It's the principle of the thing.

Tony especially hates being surrounded by people on all sides, people crowding in on them, people rumpled by long hours of travel because the airport apparently can't afford to install a trouser press. Would it kill them to have a laundry service? Would it kill people to wear deodorant?

Clint lays down a hand of cards kicks him lightly in the ankle, grinning up at him. “Your turn, Tony.” 

Tony stares at his hand for a moment and then takes a swig of the whiskey that they'd bought in duty free. If this were poker, he'd have no trouble deciding whether he had a good hand or not. He's good at poker; it's just maths and memory and bluffing, not unlike business. Unfortunately after thirty five games of poker while waiting for their delayed flight back to JFK, they'd decided to switch things up. Unfortunately, they'd let Natasha choose what else to play and she'd suggested this horrible game of her own convoluted devising that she and Clint insist is so easy a baby could play it. He doesn't know what they teach baby assassins, but he doesn't think it's anything close to normal logic.

Unfortunately, they're both masters at bluffing and he still hasn't figured out the rules.

“Come on,” Natasha says, giving him a harsh look and fingering the edge of one of her cards like she's contemplating how lethal laminated plastic can be (Tony guesses very, but he's think that about most things in her hands).

Tony sighs and lays out a hand on the floor in front of him. He'd probably have more luck choosing cards at random.

Natasha and Clint suck in a breath and he can't tell if it's good or bad or if they're both just being bastards and trying to unnerve him.

He turns to Bruce, sitting next to him on the floor, legs folded beneath him, who had actually managed to win a couple of hands (he thinks; either that or Natasha let him think he'd won just to unnerve Tony) but had bowed out gracefully two rounds ago. “Can you translate from assassin to English?”

“I'm sorry. They swore me to secrecy on their ways,” Bruce replies, lips curving up in a small smile. 

“Traitor,” Tony mutters. He leans back in the horrible hard plastic seat. “Fine, I fold.”

Clint smirks and gathers the cards up. “I don't know why you keep folding when you have winning hands, but thanks.”

“It's decided then,” Natasha says with all of the solemnity of a judge passing down sentence. “Tony has to go to Subway and buy us sandwiches.

Tony pinches the bridge of his nose and thinks longingly of executive lounges.


End file.
